


It

by imanadultiguess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blurb, Drabble, Emotionally Stunted Assholes, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 14:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15974129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: Murder husbands who are bad at feelings and in denial that they're in love cope with PTSD with alcohol and finally a mental health professional.





	It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



_It_ isn't something we talk about. _If_ we were a couple, maybe we would. _If_ I loved him, maybe I would insist he seek help. _If_ he weren't Sebastian Moran and I weren't Jim Moriarty, maybe we'd line up a meeting with a therapist or a psychiatrist. But we're not, so we don't, and it's fine.

I know some of the pieces that trigger _it_. I don't know the specifics, of course, just a few of the images or the sounds or the smells. Moran's well-being isn't important enough to merit deeper research into _it_. He doesn't offer the information and I don't ask. And the information isn't listed in any of his military or medical records. 

Sometimes _it_ is triggered by a distant shout, sometimes a flash of light, sometimes it's nothing whatsoever. And sometimes these things have no effect on him. It's hit-or-miss, it would seem. Not that I've looked for a pattern. Not that I try to circumvent those goddamned triggers. 

We don't talk about _it_ , but I think, when it happens, his neck gets hot, and his fingers and legs do numb. These are only based on observations. Not that I observe him all that often. Not that I think about _it_. 

When I return from the shops, he's at the windowsill, staring blankly out the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back. 

I clear my throat, letting the man know I've returned. He barely nods in response. 

"Here." I hand the six-pack of his preferred beer to him (because we're not together, because I'm not his mam, because he's not important to me, so I'll be damned if I prepare his beer for him, goddammit, I've already been to the shops in the soaking rain specifically to get his fucking beer), and he avoids my gaze entirely as he takes them. 

"Thanks, boss," he whispers. He half-smiles, eyes refocusing on the gray sky outside. "Not exactly the body guard you were looking for, eh, Moriarty?" 

"No." 

"Surprised you don't have me offed." 

"It's always on the table." Bastard doesn't believe me. 

He pops the cap off of the beer bottle with shaking hands and starts chugging. Color has returned to his face. His eyes have softened, no longer wild and the size of dinner plates. I watch the pulse in his neck, but it's not pounding like it was when _it_ started. We're silent while he finishes his drink. 

"Want to sleep in my room tonight?" I offer quietly. 

He nods again, still refusing to look at me. He opens another beer. "Thanks, boss," he says again. He cracks his neck. I'll need to schedule a massage for him. Whenever _it_ happens, his neck gets stiff, which leads to headaches. And a headaching sniper does me no good. 

I thread my fingers between his. It stirs something in him, because he buries his face in his free hand, a single sob emitting from his throat. 

And then it's over. His sweaty palm lets go of mine and he takes a swig of his beer. 

He cracks his neck again. Wipes the single tear from his face. "Gonna grab a shower, boss." 

"Don't leave the bottle in the shower this time," I tell him as he brushes past me. 

"Yes sir." 

"I've got a conference call in an hour, but the bed's open whenever you're finished." 

"Thanks, boss," he says for the third time. 

~~

"You've an appointment tomorrow with Dr. Livesy," I tell him when his pruny, half-drunk body slides beside me in the bed. He polished off another two beers in the shower. 

"Who?" 

"Psychiatrist. Specializes in PTSD." 

The acronym hangs heavy between us. We've never specifically named it before. 

Anger crosses his face, followed quickly by resignation. If we're going to name _it_ , he might as well not fight me. Damn, we're moving pretty fast for two emotionally unavailable serial killers. 

I'm a changeable man. 

"Are you coming with me?" 

_No. Because that's stupid. Because_ it _is his problem, not mine._

"Of course, Moran." 

He sighs, pulling the comforter up to his chin. "Thanks boss."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a big fan of mental health professionals.


End file.
